Winter's Fury
by HaveBookWillTravel
Summary: Wylelm Baratheon, black of hair and grey-eyed, has fought in the Disputed Lands since the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion with no ambition to sit the throne that cost him his mother Lyanna. When his father, Robert, summons him to Winterfell to meet after nine years of separation, he will become entangled once more in the machinations of the court he'd done his best to avoid.
1. The Windblown Prince

**Author's Note:** I know, I know, another new one. Sorry, but my muse is a drunken bitch with ADHD and I can't do a damn thing about it. However, that doesn't explain this thing. I read about as much as I drink, and that's an awful lot, and I have enjoyed quite a few of the true-born Baratheon stories on this site and others, so I thought I'd try my hand at it, only with a bit of a twist. I'll let you know now that I've skewed the timeline a bit and made it so that Brandon and Lyanna Stark were born twins, making Lyanna the same age as Robert and made a few modifications to the way sellsword companies work. Anyway, have at it.

 **Warning:** This story will be about as vulgar and gruesome as just about every other one in this fandom, so if you're not into that kind of stuff, I'd suggest you start reading something else. Also, I'm assuming you've got at least the basic knowledge of the Song of Ice and Fire going into this, so if anyone cries spoilers or what have you, I'm just going to completely ignore it. You have been warned.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own shit.

* * *

The Windblown Prince

* * *

Wyl allowed a smile to tug his lips upward as he watched the banners bearing broken blades receding across the battle-scarred land. He swept off his helm, a snarling wolf with a rack of wickedly-pointed iron antlers curling about its ears, and dismounted his fierce tawny courser whilst his pitch-black hair swung across his back, seeming to flow into the similarly-colored cape.

"Seems like old Mero remembers last time he tangled with us," he noted lightly, though his grey eyes swept across cadaverous heaps of gore the Second Sons left in the wake of their passing gravely.

"He'd be a damn fool to forget t' man what gave him such a bloody big scar on 'im," chortled Hammish, his second-in-command. Ham the Heavy, he was called jokingly, as the man was as thin as a reed and about half as light, though Ham was an excellent scout and a hell of a swordsman.

"We should give him the benefit of the doubt," piped up Yuri the Dornish standard bearer. "He might've left the kettle on the fire and only just remembered." That brought the rest of his companions to laughter, causing the stag sable on white field in his hands to bob up and down in time with their mirth.

Sobering, Wyl nodded his head toward the corpses left behind by their battle. "Let's get these poor fellows sorted and return to camp," he spoke, and several dozen of his men hurried forth at his command. "The Titan's Bastard may well be retreating in order to find reinforcements. Get the injured to Daena and burn the rest."

Wylelm Baratheon, son of King Robert and Lyanna of House Stark, had been fighting in the Disputed Lands since the tender age of four-and-ten, fighting with the Furious Fangs sellsword company since they'd been the Windblown led by the Tattered Prince of Pentos.

Only a few years ago, he had been a lieutenant under the Prince when the Windblown and the Second Sons had met in the Disputed Lands on opposite sides of battle, and the Titan's Bastard had slain his captain. Lesser men would have been routed and killed as well, perhaps captured and sold to the fighting pits in Yunkai.

Wylelm, however, was made of sterner stuff. He'd taken the broken banner from the fallen bearer and rammed it through the Bastard's thigh, deep enough that the cloth which bore a windswept leaf had turned red with Mero's blood, and rallied the remaining Windblown to force the Second Sons into retreat with the banner still lodged in Mero's leg.

Ever since, Wyl had been the captain of his merry band of sellswords, calling themselves the Furious Fangs to honor the Houses of his father and mother.

It had been close to a decade since Wyl had stood upon the soil he'd grown up on, when he had renounced his claim to the Iron Throne of Westeros before gods and men. He had been but two years old when his mother had been taken captive by the Dragon Prince, and though his father and uncle (along with a fair chunk of the Seven Kingdoms) had rebelled to save her it had been for naught. She had died far from home, and all Wyl and his father had to show for her death was an ugly, half-melted chair. When his father had taken the Lannister woman to bride, though, things had gone from bad to worse.

He had been bursting with joy when his step-mother the Queen had presented his father with Joffrey Baratheon, and even more so when Myrcella had been born a few years afterward, but sometimes he would catch Cersei Lannister skewering him with a hateful glare whenever he would play with his half-siblings, though he couldn't for the life of him understand what he had done to her to merit such wrathful looks.

When the Iron Islands had risen up in revolt, his father had once again ridden off, probably happier than Wyl had seen Robert since Lyanna had been taken from them. One night several weeks into the Greyjoy Rebellion, Wyl had awoken to find a sneering face above him, a dagger poised to cut out his heart. Only terror and reflexes beaten into him by Barristan Selmy and Aron Santagar had quickened his limbs enough to escape the killing blow to leave only a scratch across his chest. A beautifully-wrought knife gifted to him by his Uncle Renly, stabbed through the soft flesh beneath the catspaw's jaw, had ended that threat to the young prince's life.

But when the Queen had arrived in Grand Maester Pycelle's chambers later that night, where he had been taken, guarded by half a dozen gold cloaks, Wyl had caught the briefest glint of disappointment when Pycelle had told her that the Crown Prince would be making a full recovery. Once the pieces had fallen into place, Wyl had understood just how tenuous his position was.

A prince he was, heir to that vile throne, but his mother was gone and had never been a queen to begin with. His step-mother, on the other hand, was the daughter of the Westerlands' warden, queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and was still fit to bear more of the king's children. From what he overheard, and from what the simpering Master of Whispers had implied, Cersei wanted Joff to sit the Iron Throne, and wouldn't let something as meager as laws of succession deter her from that lofty goal.

At first, he had been furious, full of a black rage the likes of which he had never felt in all his young life and left him trembling from head to foot. By all accounts, he had taken the best of his parents' traits, boisterous and jolly, honorable and righteous, but Wyl had inherited the fury of House Baratheon and the wolf's blood of the Starks of Winterfell as well. He wanted this rebellion to be over so he could ask his father to have Ser Ilyn Payne remove that foul wench's head from her body and mount it on a spike above the Red Keep's walls.

The more he thought about it, however, the less he wanted that to happen. He knew exactly how losing a mother at a young age felt, and he would be damned if he put his beloved siblings through that experience, no matter how wretched their mother was.

But the way Wyl saw it, there were only two outcomes: either he had the queen killed, or the queen had him killed, and he didn't like either of them. So he threw himself into the royal library, searching through dusty tomes and crackling scrolls for some solution to bear itself to him, but none were forthcoming.

When his father returned victorious, he celebrated the quelling of the Iron Islands' rebellion with a massive tourney, and Wyl overheard his father lamenting drunkenly that he'd have sooner just ridden off to become a sellsword than return to that uncomfortable chair if it hadn't been for the honorable Lord Eddard Stark.

The idea burrowed into Wyl's head and didn't leave until a month after Robert's return, when Wylelm Baratheon, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, had come before the king while he was holding court and asked his father's leave to abdicate his right to the crown and lend his sword to the conflicts in the Disputed Lands.

Wyl had rarely seen Robert so somber when he'd asked why. He had heard from Pycelle of the attempt on Wyl's life, and though Wyl had tried to dismiss the king's concerns, every so often, he would catch his father glancing with a wary suspicion at Cersei.

So Wyl lied through his teeth, saying that Westeros and the Red Keep were no place for him; that everything reminded Wyl of what the price had been for the Baratheon dynasty to rise, and what he had lost in the bargain. Robert had listened intently, and Wyl had been embarrassed to find the king's blue eyes full of unshed tears.

"I understand, my son," Robert had declared after composing himself. "Had your damned uncle Ned seized the throne for himself, I would have taken you away from these kingdoms myself. I'll have everything taken care of. You'll be gone from Westeros as soon as possible."

And within a fortnight, the preparations had been made. With three chests full of armor, clothes, and books, a fresh-forged sword, a sack of gold, and a few other gifts from his uncles and the rest of the Small Council, Wyl had set off from the Seven Kingdoms.

"I'll miss you, Father," he had said solemnly. "Be good to Joff; he doesn't think as often as he should, but he adores you and only wants you to be proud of him. Don't borrow overmuch from your goodfather Lord Tywin. It's bad enough you've got Lannisters crawling all over the Red Keep; we don't need you being in debt to them as well.

"And most importantly," he'd finished, glancing back to where the rest of his royal send-off party stood several dozen feet away, "keep an eye on my dear stepmother."

Robert had nodded, for once stone-sober, and he'd sighed almost wistfully. "Would that I could join you, Wyl. We'd be the greatest sellswords in the world."

"I'll make sure tales of Wylelm the Wondrous reach you before the turn of the moon," he'd jested. "You'll be proud, I swear it."

"I already am, son." They'd shared one final embrace, and then Wyl had left the Seven Kingdoms, hoping that it would assuage Cersei's urge to have him murdered in his sleep.

And so, for nigh on ten years, Wyl drank in the cultures of Essos, sparring with the greatest Water Dancers of Braavos and riding against fierce Dothraki bloodriders, partaking in the pleasure houses of Lys and sampling the tastiest dishes Pentos had to offer. He beheld the greatest wonders and bore witness to the most horrific atrocities, all the while missing his family and praying to every god he knew (and he knew quite a few of them) to keep them safe and happy.

Every once in a while, if he was close to a friendly port or met with sailors of good repute, Wyl would send a letter or six to his kin across the Narrow Sea, asking after their health and regaling them with a few of his more outrageous tales (he knew his father would enjoy a few of them, especially the time he'd fought off half a dozen Norvoshi axemen with his britches around his ankles and a screaming nun in his bed). Sometimes there would even be replies waiting at the next dock, or being handed to him by one of Varys' little birds.

At first, there had been many and more letters full of news, the birth of yet another brother named Tommen, a couple more Stark cousins, Joff making quite the progress in archery, Myrcella growing to become a beauty to rival even her mother. But as time went on, less and less correspondence found him, and before long, they had dwindled to perhaps one every half-year or so, and with perhaps less of a personal tone than they'd once held. Wyl still wrote to his father and siblings, the brother he'd never met, his cousins he only held a dim recollection of, but his life in Westeros had become only a painful memory and his new family needed someone to reign in their less wholesome tendencies.

Later that night, as Wyl received Ham's casualty report for the battle with the Second Sons, a small, copper-skinned youth was escorted into his command tent holding a scroll that bore the crowned stag seal of King Robert Baratheon. It had been nearly three turns of the moon since the last letter, which meant that it was about three months too early to be getting word from his father.

Curious, and with an odd sense of unease in the pit of his stomach, Wyl broke the seal and unfurled the parchment.

 _Wyl,_

 _I hope this finds you in a better state than I was when I wrote it. We Baratheons have never been ones to beat 'round the bush, so I'll just say it: Jon Arryn is dead. Some devilish sickness or other led him to the Stranger, so quickly I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself, and even now I've got some doubts..._

 _We're heading north for Winterfell. I mean to name your uncle Hand. But this hasn't got much to do with you, so why am I writing? I suppose seeing the man who I thought of as a father withering away and dying has got me wondering how mine own son is. I would look upon you once more, see the man you've grown to be._

 _I cannot help but feel in my gut that I haven't much time left. No matter how I go, I'd like to say that I got to talk with you again. Gods be willing, this gets to you before we head out. If you can, get yourself to Winterfell, and don't be disappointed in the fat drunk your father has become._

 _I hope to see you soon._

There followed the various titles Robert had been laden with years ago.

Wyl took a moment to process the contents of the letter. Jon Arryn had been the only grandfather he'd ever truly known; Steffon Baratheon had died in Shipbreaker Bay before he'd even been a twinkle in Robert's eye, and Rickard Stark had burned alive in King's Landing when he was but a babe. The Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East had taught him right from wrong, and listened patiently to even the smallest of Wyl's worries as a child. Jon had always seemed as invulnerable and steadfast as the seat of his power on the Giant's Lance. Wyl couldn't quite wrap his mind around the fact that such a strong and capable man could be brought low by a simple sickness.

He sat for a few more minutes, staring unseeing at the parchment before coming to a decision. He called Ham in and told him of his plans, then sent out orders to have his belongings packed up and ready to move.

After eight long years of self-imposed exile, Wylelm Baratheon was finally going back to Westeros.

* * *

 **After-Action Report:** A new challenger has appeared in the game of thrones. Let's see how Wyl does. And for those curious few, Wyl's name is derived from the place of his conception (i.e. under an elm tree near the castle Wyl, seat of House Wyl).

Yes, I know that Lyanna was born roundabout 266 AC in canon, but um...yeah, this is fanfiction, I can do whatever the hell I want. So here, she's Brandon's twin and Ned's elder sister. And once Steffon Baratheon died in 278, Robert had to step up and make a true-born baby, and since they were already nearly of age (both would've been fifteen by that point, and manhood is achieved at sixteen while entering womanhood is as easy as getting one's period), the Starks and Baratheons managed to join their houses. So Wyl is conceived on a sort of honeymoon around the southern bit of Westeros, born in 279, and is just old enough to get fucked by Rhaegar's little scheme.

I've compiled a timeline here for reference.

262 A.C.  
-Robert Baratheon is born.  
-Lyanna Stark is born.

278 A.C.  
-Robert and Lyanna are wed.

279 A.C.  
-Their coupling results in the birth of Wylelm Baratheon.

280 A.C.  
-Rhaegar Targaryen spirits Lyanna away during the tourney at Harrenhal, setting the stage for Robert's Rebellion.

281 A.C.  
-The Targaryen dynasty crumbles, with Viserys and Daenerys being the sole survivors.  
-Lyanna dies while captive, leaving Robert to wed Cersei Lannister, and they begin the Baratheon dynasty.

282 A.C.  
-Cersei gives birth to Joffrey Baratheon (secretly born of incest).

285 A.C.  
-Cersei gives birth to Myrcella Baratheon (secretly born of incest).

289 A.C.  
-Robert sets out to quell the Greyjoy Rebellion.  
-Cersei conspires to have Wylelm murdered, but he thwarts the attempt and kills the catspaw.

290 A.C.  
-Upon his father's return, Wylelm goes and begs the king's leave to abdicate his right to the Iron Throne in order to live as a sellsword and allowing the line of succession to pass to his 'brother' Joffrey.

-Having been outfitted with the finest equipment the Seven Kingdoms has to offer, Wylelm departs from Westeros.

291 A.C.  
-Wylelm joins the sellsword company called the Windblown under the leadership of the Tattered Prince of Pentos.

296 A.C.  
-The Tattered Prince is slain in battle by the Titan's Bastard, Mero of the Second Sons. Rather than flee, Wylelm takes charge of the Windblown and beats back the opposing sellsword company, dealing Mero a grievous wound to his leg and gaining captaincy of the Windblown.  
-Wylelm changes the name of the Windblown to the Furious Fangs.

298 A.C.  
-Jon Arryn dies, poisoned with the Tears of Lys by his wife.  
-Robert calls upon Wylelm to attend the royal procession at Winterfell, where he will name Eddard Stark Hand of the King.

And there we have it. I've got things shaping up to be quite different from canon events what with a true-born Baratheon with wolf's blood singing through his veins and a few years' worth of commanding experience.

Thanks for reading if you've gotten this far down, and I hope you leave a review telling me if you liked it, hated it, or are currently about to hunt me down and behead me for creating such a travesty to mankind. Have a good day!


	2. Arya

**Author's Note:** So this one is super-short, and takes place roughly two months after the first chapter.

 **Disclaimer** and **Warning** still apply.

* * *

Arya

* * *

Arya tugged miserably at the collar of the gown her mother had forced her into for the day. She had never been as comfortable in the clothing of gently-born women as Sansa or Lady Stark, nor was she the type of girl who enjoyed sitting quietly and working on needlepoint. That didn't seem to matter to Mother, though, and it made her sad to realize that they would likely never truly understand each other the way child and parent should.

The rest of her family had assembled out in the courtyard beneath the Great Keep, even her half-brother Jon Snow and her father's ward Theon Greyjoy, though they were off to the side, part of the household and yet not of the house. They were all waiting for the king's firstborn son, the only offspring of her father's sister. People always told Arya that she had the look of Lyanna about her, and that she would one day grow to become a great beauty, but she doubted that on principle.

She had received perhaps two dozen letters from her cousin across the sea, and once or twice a little bauble or trinket when luck permitted. Though she had never met this Wylelm Baratheon before, tales of his prowess had reached even Winterfell in the north. He was said to be just as strong and skilled as his father before him, winning renown and glory in the Disputed Lands of Essos. There was even a song about him called _The Windblown Prince_ that told the tale of how he'd won the right to be captain of an entire company of sellswords when he was just seven-and-ten, though Arya always took what bards and storytellers talked about with a grain of salt (unlike Sansa, who believed everything anyone told her ever).

In the distance, horns sounded, heralding her cousin's arrival. Within minutes, a small group of men cantered into the courtyard atop garrons, with a tall, broad-shouldered man at the head of the procession, while a mule-drawn wagon trailed behind them. He wore a mishmash of armor and clothing that bespoke of a sellsword, but his helm was finely wrought, and each piece of his gear was as well-maintained as the weapons he carried.

When he took his headgear off, a cascade of black hair fell loosely down his back, and Arya could instantly see how this man was related to her. Their features, from the slightly hooked nose to the thick eyebrows and solemn jaw, could almost see them as siblings. Her true brothers and sisters took after their mother more, but Lord Stark had always told her that the wolf blood ran strong and deep in her veins. Wylelm's beard was neatly trimmed close to his face, and his eyes grey and cautious, but when he took in the Starks of Winterfell, a wide smile split his lips to reveal startlingly white teeth.

"Lord Stark," he said in a voice that rumbled like a summer storm as he knelt before Arya's father. "I am most thankful for the hospitality you have extended toward me and mine."

Arya watched as Lord Stark's eyes gazed at his nephew, seeming to drink in the younger man's appearance, before one of Eddard's rare smiles crinkled his eyes up. "Rise, Wylelm, and be welcome," the lord of Winterfell spoke softly. "You are kin, and you will always have a place here."

As Wyl went down the row, greeting Lady Stark solemnly before moving on to Robb with a good deal more enthusiasm, Arya took the opportunity to study Wylelm's retinue. They were a hodgepodge of people, as varied as the armor her cousin wore. They were mostly brown-skinned, with a few of lighter complexion and one man whose skin was black as pitch. She counted twenty altogether; thirteen men and seven women, though each was armed and armored. Her mother would likely not approve of them, but Arya watched the female fighters with keen interest.

"And you must be Arya." She tore her attention away from the sellswords and turned it upon their captain. Up close, he was much taller than she'd realized, of a height with her father in fact. Dumbly, she nodded, and Wylelm's smile grew by a few teeth.

"Yes, Cousin Wylelm," she managed, remembering her manners a little late and performing a clumsy curtsy. She resisted the urge to fidget beneath his grey gaze and wished once more that her mother had allowed her to bring Nymeria. She'd had the direwolf pup for less than a week, yet there was something about the adorable ball of fur that calmed her in a way little else did.

"Now, none of that," he frowned playfully. "Call me Wyl. I see you had your eyes on my friends over there. Perhaps if your mother and father approve, I could introduce you to some of them."

Arya's eyes darted to her parents hopefully; Eddard's gaze moved to the sellswords, an appraising look crossing his features, while Catelyn pursed her lips.

"Perhaps," she hedged doubtfully. Lady Stark never understood that Arya would rather try her hand at swordplay than needlework, and her father usually heeded her mother's advice when it came to his daughters.

"Chin up, wolfling," Wyl replied, "I've got a few things for you and your brothers and sister in the wagon that'll put a smile on your face, methinks, even if Lord and Lady Stark don't like the company I keep." Then he went to greet Bran and Rickon in turn before scanning the rest of the household.

"Whom do you seek?" Eddard asked.

"Little Jonny of course," Wyl answered, eyes peeled for Snow. Arya immediately saw her mother's mouth flatten to a dangerously thin line; it was considered a piece of family wisdom amongst her siblings not to speak of their base-born brother within earshot of Catelyn Stark, but apparently Wyl hadn't known that.

"I'm here, my prince," came Jon's voice, subdued and sullen, from behind Rodrik Cassel and Theon. Arya looked and saw that Jon looked like he'd been trying to hide from their cousin, and when Wyl pounced on him, Arya saw why.

"Didn't you hear, Jonny?" Wyl asked with humor in his voice as he dragged the shame of Eddard Stark to the forefront of their small party. "I haven't been a prince for close to ten years! Why were you sulking back there with the squid and the bulldog?"

The master-at-arms of Winterfell let out a grunting chuckle as Theon's ever-present grin shrank a bit.

"It's a kraken," Theon muttered, plucking at the thread-of-gold embroidery on his coat.

"It seemed unbecoming to welcome the first-born son of our king with a...base-born child standing with the family," Catelyn said stiffly, but Wyl waved off her protest with a negligent gesture of his hand.

"Base-born, high-born, low-born," Wyl said flippantly. "We all come into the world the same way, and none of us get out alive. Half of my companions are bastards, and the other half wish they were. I said it before, I'm no longer a prince." He mussed Jon's hair the way Jon usually did to her. "But this one'll always be kin, regardless of whose birthing canal he shot out from."

Arya had to hide a fit of mirth at her cousin's outburst behind both hands, and her actions were mirrored in half the men-at-arms. She even saw Robb bite his lip to avoid showing his amusement to their mother, who couldn't have looked more offended than if Wyl had slapped her across the face with a trout.

"But I didn't come to discuss the philosophy of life in the courtyard," Wyl added, "I came to visit with the blood of my blood. Come, I would enjoy acquainting myself with my new cousins, and reacquaint myself with the ones I've missed so dearly."

She couldn't be sure, but Arya thought she might have seen the briefest of smiles play across her father's normally grim features before he nodded in agreement and turned to head into the Great Hall. Jon, she noticed, tried to escape, but Wyl just flung his arm about his shoulder and steered him along with the rest of the family.

As they all filed into the keep, Arya thought that Wylelm Baratheon might just be her favorite relative yet.

* * *

 **After-Action Report:** This chapter was originally going to be longer and span a couple different viewpoints, since that's usually how I write. It's a little difficult to pump out a full chapter's worth of a single PoV and I feel like the breaks allow the story to flow better (but that's just me, and YMMV). But, as I continued writing, I realized that it was _waay_ too big, and it would've been a little clunky. So the next one will be a little longer and pick up at around the time Bobby B hits Winterfell.

The immediate timeline is this:

Jon Arryn dies. Robert decides on naming Ned as Hand of the King and orders Varys to send a summons to Wyl.

The summons reaches Wyl in the Disputed Lands two weeks later, in which time preparations for the court to travel North begin. Wyl selects a group to act as his escort and arranges to head to Winterfell.

The royal wheelhouse is completed and provisions stocked at around the same time Wyl arrives at White Harbor. Meanwhile, a deserter of the Night's Watch is beheaded by Ned, and on the way back to Winterfell, the Stark boys find a dead direwolf and six pups who need a new home.

Wyl and co. arrive at Winterfell around the same time the royal procession leaves King's Landing.

So the Starklings have their partners, the royal procession is on its way oop north, and Wyl's already pissing off Cat. To be perfectly honest, I really don't like the Tullys in general. Blackfish is cool, but that's a given; Ed, Lysa, and Cat all suffer from varying degrees of idiocy, and while Hoster doesn't get much actual page-time in the books (and his only scene in the HBO series is his friggin' funeral), he's more than likely where his kids got their, ahem, intelligence from. So Wyl's gonna be needling Cat mercilessly about Jon and pretty much anything else he feels strongly enough about.

Speaking of Jon...I know some of you are wondering if I subscribe to the L+ R = J theory, and the answer is a tentative yes. The clues are pretty solid when laid out properly, but that only gives me doubts, considering how sneaky and sadistic GRRM is with this type of stuff. For all we know, Jon actually _is_ Ned's bastard and there is some tavern wench named Wylla with knockers the size of a Northerner's broken honour.

But for the sake of this story, yes, Jon is Rhaegar and Lyanna's _il_ _legitimate_ child, which makes Jonny boy Wyl's half-brother. So there's something that could potentially become super-fun to play with.

And yes, Wyl's an equal-opportunity employer, with no gender-bias. His reasoning is that if you can go toe-to-toe with him in a spar for at least five minutes, you're a Furious Fang. There will be a couple OCs in the story besides Wyl, all of whom will be part of his company, so if you're not into that sort of thing, well, I'll be sorry to see you leave, but I'll enjoy watching you go...hm, that joke doesn't really hold up on the Interwebz.

So yeah. That's pretty much it for this chapter.

Oh, and before I forget, I've just put up a poll on my profile that asks the question of who you (the reader) would like to see Wyl paired up with. You'll notice that most of the women in canon are present, with the exception of the Tully sisters, the Stark sisters, and Shireen. The Tullys, as I mentioned above, I just don't like, while the other three are his first cousins, and will therefore be out of the running. Sorry, but just because Tywin did it doesn't mean the rest of Westeros can as well.

It's really interesting because I can take Wyl's character so many different directions at this point, and having your input into who Wyl should be paired with would sorta pave the path that you would enjoy the most. I'll enjoy it anyway, but this way everyone (mostly) will be happy. So that's why there are so many choices. Hell, I even put Fat Walda in there just to see if anyone'd pick her.

Regardless, thanks to everyone who followed and added this story to their favorites list, and especially to all the reviews. I'm blown away by how many there are already. You humble me. Have a great day!


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